OK, I’ve figured it out; I’m gonna be a paleo-beatnick pretentious Persona (in reference, of course, to the Bergman film.)
I already have my black and white horizontal striped boat-neck pullover, black pants, black socks and black loafers (sans penny, of course.) If I had more hair, less gut and no beard I would look EXACTLY like Ken Kesey. (unfortunately, with the beard and gut I look like a middle-aged mime with no makeup or beret - but I’m working on it.)
I feel I must explain to the slower readers that this does not, in any way, relate to the neo-beatnick/coffeeshop wannabes that are so late 90s. I shan’t be seen within sneering distance of a Starbucks, Caribou, or other mass-produced coffee hawker. When I pay $3.94 for a coffee, you can be damn sure that the beans were hand picked by indigenous persons directly out of the ferret dung - not processed with chemicals having names that begin with greek letters (alpha- hydroxy whatever) or a string of numbers, letters and prefixes(2,4- DNP Tetradipropyl snotoxide).
Further, my coffee will be like my women - strong and bitter. Face it, nobody truly enjoys iced coffee, espresso, latte, cappuccino, frappaccino, crappiccino, or any of the related coffee-come-lately versions. I understand that there are some people who will always drink these Coffee Seed Demon Spawn in a desparate attempt to fit into what they believe to be popular society, I hope that they will soon realize that this pop-culture is merely an house of cards, destined to be destroyed and rebuilt in a different style as soon as the prevailing breeze of trendiness shifts.
For me it’ll be Coffee, Java, Joe, Liquid Boot Black, that’s all (if offered, I’ll take a cup of Columbian-I would never purchase it.)myself.) And I’ll take it straight. And hot. Damn hot. I want you to take steam, drop it 1 degree until it condenses and then use it to make the coffee. Anything less and I’ll simply pour the mug out towards my left side, no questions asked. I don’t care if I’m in your hole-in-the-wall coffeehouse listening to fresh poets going stale with each droning monosyllabic word or visiting your dying mother and sitting on her white sofa to the right of her cherished Persian cat.
I’d explain more, but I doubt you’d appreciate…
S. Pritle Comthistle-Comthistle III, Ph.D, Esq. RPB.